It’s that time of year again. The mower has broken so often, and so thoroughly, that I’m once again contemplating buying a new one. The landscaping has gotten so out of hand that I’m losing track of what I planted and what is actually just weeds. The weed whacker has reached the 20/40 phase, which means for every 20 minutes of whacking I have to spend 40 minutes fiddling with the stringie thing. The raspberry bushes are done fruiting and now just look like an unruly, prickly mess. There are green things growing up through the driveway that are somehow strong enough to crack asphalt. I know life will find a way but man, that’s some burly plant life.

Yes, it’s the time of year where I’m about ready to throw in the towel. Nature has beaten me yet again and my foolish attempts at harnessing her for my own aesthetic hubris are a dismal failure, as always. The grounds of my castle have turned against me as I limp into the latter part of the summer with broken tools, shattered dreams, and unwashable stains on my Dad pants. (Dad pants are khakis used exclusively for outdoor work. I’m not sure why unpleated, tan slacks seem like the right attire when reporting for yard duty, but they just do. We don’t make the rules. We just live by them.)

Amidst the horrible backyard ennui that starts setting in just about this time every summer, there is one bright spot, one small break in the otherwise cloudy atmosphere. The garden starts to really produce.

Now those of you that have read my previous columns know that I’m an avid gardener. By avid I mean that I attempt to plant and tend a handful of boxes each year with varying degrees of success. By varying I mean mostly very little success but occasionally I’ll grow something edible despite myself. By “despite myself” I mean that once again I should have listened to my wife. On Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs, a successful garden lies just below “Love and Belonging” but above “Safety and Security,” meaning a healthy marriage is likely more important but I’d probably take some homegrown carrots over having financial stability or, you know, a home.

This year is different, however. This year I have somehow avoided the bugs, the varmints, and the diseases that have rendered my poor garden into a psychological torture chamber in the past. Don’t ask me how I did it or what I changed because I can’t tell you. It’s inexplicable but man, everything is really growing and producing this year. I’m keenly aware of this vegetation detonation because I’m once again realizing that I’ve planted a bunch of things that I really don’t want to eat.

For example, curly kale. I’m a lacinato guy. Well-massaged lacinato to be more specific. The rest of the kale family is too close to chewing on maple leaves. Now I’m sure somebody is going to write in to claim that maple leaves are actually delicious, but we all know that’s just posturing at best, virtue signaling at worst. We get it. Kale is the most nutritious, the heartiest of the greens, and has the longest growing season. Kale is going to save the world one stringy, hippy salad at a time but I’m not on that train. Unless it’s massaged within an inch of its life, I’m probably not putting that in my mouth. Sure, I’ll eat it to impress people, that goes without saying, but my “Eat More Kale” t-shirt comes with an asterisk. So when I walk into the garden and see giant, frond-like appendages growing to dinosaur-era scale, I don’t get all that excited. I could just eat the grass on my lawn, which also has the benefit of making my mower less necessary. See above.

Another item I spend weeks watering and weeding, but won’t eat, is eggplant. We’ve got two plants this year and they’re going gangbusters. Massive fruits that are so plump they’re almost bending the plant horizontally and the deep purple of their skin beckons to be picked. Guess what though? I’m allergic to eggplant. No joke. I eat eggplant and it’s like my mouth is lined with poison ivy, like a hard palate chigger or something. If it gets really bad, I have trouble breathing and have to find my inhaler. That’s no problem though as I have like 30 of them scattered around the house. That’s not because I need them quickly or anything, in fact, I take a puff maybe once or twice a year. No, I have dozens of them because on a trip to Brazil I discovered they sell them over the counter for like $2 a piece. The same brand in the U.S. requires my doctor’s prescription and costs like $100. The contrast made me so angry that I spite-purchased a ton of them to bring home. I keep a drawer full of expired albuterol inhalers with Portuguese packaging as an homage to me beating the system. I recognize that spite-purchasing is a luxury and a privilege but those of us that have the ability to stick it to the man should do so, right? Take that, medical tyranny!

Where was I? Ah yes, I was describing the giant eggplants I’ve grown that I can’t eat. I’m also being overrun with pickling cucumbers. Once the plants get going it seems like new cukes grow overnight. I have baskets of them in my kitchen and don’t know what to do because, wait for it, I don’t like pickling stuff. It’s just too much work. The sterilizing and the heating and the boiling and the pressure cooking. It seems like such a good idea but honestly, I’d rather just munch on a Kirby or throw a gherkin in my salad. Now I have a huge stack of bloated picklers ready to be dilled or soured or whatever and unless the love of my life finds a spare 12 hours, I’ll probably give them away.

Hot peppers are another one. Did you know that the collective noun for peppers is “garden”? I’m 100 percent sure you didn’t but this year I have a garden of peppers in my garden. I enjoy an occasional spicy pepper in a salsa or salad but then I only need about one-eighth of one pepper. Meanwhile everyday I’m picking baskets full of jalapenos, Hot Hungarian Wax, Italian longs, and some other thing that I can’t identify. I know I planted it, I just can’t remember what it is. It’s hot though, and it’s prolific as hell. There must be 50 peppers on that one anonymous plant. I might use half of one this whole summer. As a percentage that’s like one-half of one-fiftieth, which has to be some kind of other number that feels really small. (As you may have picked up with these columns, I’m not the stickiest tape in the … or the sharpest marker in … I’m not the brightest tack … let’s just say I’m not that smrt. Smrt! Smart! I’m not that smart! And I was told there’d be no math.)

So, it’s that time of year then. I make a number of trips to the One Hope Community blue fridge down on Clinton Avenue where I leave piles of peppers, kale, eggplant, cucumbers, and bunches of basil because once again I’ve planted four when one basil plant is more than enough. Hopefully my excess is being put to good use and someone is enjoying it. That helps me justify planting the same things again next spring when this cycle of life continues. I’m also allergic to asparagus so maybe I should try my hand at that.